


By proxy

by Rochelle_Rochelle



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M, Frozen Treats, Fruit, Joanlock - Freeform, Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-25 06:46:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10758900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rochelle_Rochelle/pseuds/Rochelle_Rochelle
Summary: Joanlock smut because it's been a while. Probably not as explicit as you want but still smutty. It will build. First chapter, "Popsicle," Second chapter, "Peaches." Third chapter, "in pro per."





	1. Popsicle

Sex between them had been off the table since day one. As they transformed from sober companion and client to teacher and protégée to where they stood now as business partners, housemates and friends - the prospect of a romantic relationship and/or sex between them was not to be seriously entertained by either. Too messy, too dangerous, too complicated. Most importantly there was absolutely no sexual attraction between them, no love other than a deep platonic friendship. There was no reason to upset the apple cart. Needs could be fulfilled elsewhere. 

This was what their respective brains told them. Other parts of their body, I'm speaking of their hearts, of course, had very strong opinions to the contrary. But they were both very rational beings so, naturally, the brain always won. Almost. 

*|*|*

Holmes and Watson were at leisure. An early summer Saturday, at mid-afternoon, found them in the brownstone pursuing individual pleasures. Sherlock, at the lock room table, sat hunched over the latest challenge from his acquaintance, the bomb-maker. A tiny screwdriver in his latex gloved hand hovered over an even tinier screw as he studied wires and alternatives. These bombs were never lethal; it was the challenge of outwitting their maker that drove him forward.

Joan sauntered into the room and stood over him, observing his process for a minute or so. Sherlock looked up, thinking she was in need of information or counsel, unsure of what she wanted. He asked the question with a look and she responded with a shrug and walked into the library. 

She sat down in his leather club chair curling her feet beneath her; that item in her hand to which he had not really paid much attention to, was now receiving her full attention. 

Joan tore open the white paper wrapper on her popsicle. This was not just any popsicle, this was a missile shaped, cherry, rocket popsicle. Last visit to the bodega, she'd purchased a small box of them over his protestations about their lack of nutritional value and the foolishness of paying for colored ice water. She had not heeded his warnings and was now about to show him just how enjoyable a popsicle could be be.

She carefully peeled away the paper to reveal the object of her desire. Cherry red, it glistened in her hand. She took a slow preliminary lick, from the very bottom up to the rounded top of its cylindrical body her tongue glided. Joan studied the popsicle before giving it another full lick, twirling it slightly as she reached the top. Once there, her lips encircled the tip and sucked lightly.

Sherlock found himself drawn away from his task, mesmerized by the scene before him. His hand still hovered over the bomb's small screw but his eyes were fixed upon her lips. Tinged red and slightly swollen from their work around the ice, he watched as her lips parted and she took a tender bite of the crimson tip and then swirled her tongue upon it's surface, smoothing gently, round and round.

Was she aware he was watching her? Was she doing this for his benefit? Watching her tongue and lips work against the sleek red cylinder of ice was having a rather strong effect on him. He could not look away.

Joan's tongue extended and caught the beads of sugared water that trickled towards her hand. Her head tilted as she sucked at the melting bits at the popsicle's base. Her lips were wet and slick with its sweetness and her tongue darted out to lick at them, her teeth biting at her cold lower lip before turning her attention back to the popsicle. She took more of the tip into her mouth and sucked lightly, almost kissing it's tippy-top as her tongue swirled against it. 

Sherlock swallowed hard, blinked several times and continued to watch.

Joan tilted her head back against the leather chair and plunged the whole of the popsicle into her mouth, then slowly pulled it out, her cheeks hallowing as she sucked its sweet juices. Rhythmically, she repeated the process, taking it deep within her mouth and savoring the taste and feel of it as she slowly pulled it out.

He sat slack-jawed watching her. Her pace quickened and the popsicle was pushed faster in and out, in and out, her lips now fully swollen, deep crimson red ... in and out, in and out. His breathing quickened to match her rhythm. Sherlock sat enthralled at the movement of her tongue, the round circle of her open mouth. A faint ticking seem to punctuate each movement.

Joan pulled the popsicle from her mouth, considered it for just a moment before sinking her teeth into it and biting.

From the lock room came a gasp followed by an explosion. White smoke and confetti surrounded Sherlock. Joan, the remnants of the popsicle melting in her hand, turned to him and gave him a slow and very satisfied grin.


	2. Peaches

Unable to sleep, she climbed out of bed and headed down to the kitchen for water or a snack or whatever. She didn't really know what she wanted. 

Finding the light on in the kitchen in the middle of the night was no surprise. Sherlock kept his own odd hours; she was used to it. What she didn't expect was to find him shirtless at the kitchen table surrounded by peaches. 

"Couldn't sleep?" His voice registered no surprise at seeing her. 

"Nope." She opened the fridge and stared in looking for an answer as to what it was she wanted. The fridge didn't know either. She sighed and closed the door, turning her attention to the table. "What are you doing?"

Before him sat a bowl of ice water where about a half dozen peaches swam. The table was covered with a few dishcloths, an empty plate, a knife, a bowl. 

"The bodega had a surplus of ripe peaches," he said as if that explained it all.

She waited for him to continue and when he didn't, she prodded him with, "And?"

"I thought I'd make peach pie." He rescued a peach from the ice bath and held it between his hands. "You see, Watson, in order to peel the fruit you must first ..."

Joan sat down. This was going to take a while.

He patted the peach lightly with one of the dish towels and continued, "... boil the fruit, sixty seconds or less is quite sufficient, submerge them in ice water to stop the cooking and then peel."

She watched his fingers work as he talked. Long and knobby, they caressed the fuzzy peach skin in search of the best spot to start. His sense of touch was as acute as his sense of hearing.

He pinched at the pinkish fuzz and gently lifted. The skin pulled away easily, leaving the juicy flesh exposed. His fingers pulled and peeled large swathes of the soft fuzzy skin revealing the yellow orange of the fruit beneath. Once naked, the flesh was wet and slippery and he kept a firm hold on it as he worked. Sherlock continued expounding on the virtues of the peach. Joan wasn't really listening to his words but was drawn to his actions. 

"There is something about the tactile process of peeling and pitting that is oddly satisfying to me. The feel of the slick fruit in your hands as you open it, pulling the flesh apart to reveal the round nub of its pit." He talked almost to himself as he worked, prodding the peach halves apart and showing her the red pit encased like a heart at the center of the peach. He dug his finger into the flesh at the head of the pit and worked at it a bit until the peach stone loosened. Sherlock plucked it out, peach juice running through his fingers and looked up at her with a pleased smile. 

Joan's expression was odd. She seemed a little flush to him. "You okay?"

She had found herself having a strong physical reaction to watching him work with the fruit and was thoroughly embarrassed by it. "Hmmm..." was all she managed to say. 

Sherlock popped the pit into his mouth. Joan watched as his tongue maneuvered it round his mouth, sucking away at the fleshy bits that clung to it. She swallowed and watched as he reached for another peach. He repeated the process, his fingers slid over the slippery flesh, cutting, pulling it apart and poking to get to the stone. A deep quiet fell between them as he worked. The sensation of the slick fruit on his fingers was proving more and more pleasant. He started to get a sense of what might be causing Watson's unusual silence, the light pinking of her neck and cheeks. 

He released the last pit from its spot and raised his eyes to hers. The peach half in his hand glistened between them and on impulse he brought the fruit before her mouth. Joan's eyes, dark and intense, met his and confirmed what he too felt. She leaned forward, putting her hand on his, as she took a bite. Her eyes never wavered from his. 

Sherlock's breath quickened as she took the fruit from his hand and placed it before his mouth, teasing his lips lightly with the wet flesh. His hand beneath the table found her knee and he steadied himself against it as he moved forward, lips parting allowing his tongue a taste of the sweet fruit before taking a large bite, releasing juices that trickled down his chin. Eyes closed momentarily at the sensation; his hand almost involuntarily squeezed her knee and stroked slowly up and down her thigh. 

All inhibitions dropped; Joan drew closer to his face. Licking the sweet beads of juice from his chin, she moved up, her tongue brushing across lips. Sherlock met her ministrations with his own and nose to nose they nuzzled, teased, bit lightly, their faces sticky with the fruit's juices, the taste and smell of peaches clinging to them. 

She took a breath and lowered her head. Her forehead came to rest on his mouth and he took the opportunity to place several kisses there.

Joan sighed, knowing they had to stop now or fall head first into a place neither were prepared for at the moment. She pulled away and met his pleading eyes. Joan stood. His hand moved to her waist in hopes of holding her with him just a little longer. They didn't speak; they held each other's eyes in silent understanding, exchanged a sad smile and parted.


	3. In pro per

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from a legal term - in ones own proper person.  
> Please do let me know if this tips too much to the vulgar or is just laughably silly. Thank you for reading. Feel free to comment.

Joan stood at the doorway to his room. The weak light of the pre-dawn hour revealed his recumbent form; his arm covered his eyes, but he was awake. She climbed onto the bed, kneeling beside him, her heart beating a mile a minute. 

"Let's do it." 

Sherlock, still bare-chested, but now down to his underwear, quickly removed the arm from his eyes and looked at her confused. "What?" He knew what she was suggesting but wanted to make sure. He'd been laying there contemplating the same thought for hours, from the moment she left him peach-drizzled and wanting more. 

She launched into a condensed version of the conclusion she'd come to upstairs. The words rushed out of her. 

"We've been with each other longer, lived with each other longer, than anyone else save family. Deaths, kidnappings, relapse, fights of monumental proportions, other relationships haven't managed to break us apart, not for very long anyway. Our roles have shifted and changed and yet here we are. We've managed to stay together against all odds." She stopped, quickly scanning his face for a reaction. 

Seeing none, she took a big breath and continued. "I think moving our relationship forward to include a physical component won't destroy what we have. If it doesn't work, I think we can always return to, to being Watson and Holmes."

He watched her, enthralled by her words, her nervous excitement.

Watching him watch her and saying nothing, left Joan feeling insecure. "I mean, I'm just putting this out there. It's your decision. If you think it would do more harm than good, I'll understand. Nothing will change. You can be aggravating as hell, but I love you. And I can't see me without you."

He finally spoke, "Aggravating as hell?" His grimace futilely attempted to hide the emotion her confession of love had swelled within him. His next words, contrary to his intentions, rolled out as a soft purr, "You, my dearest Watson, need to work on your seduction skills." A grin spread across his face as he lunged at her, toppling her backwards. Joan's relieved laughter further exciting him. 

His body hard and strong atop hers quelled any remnants of uncertainty on her part. Joan cupped his face with both hands, guiding him to her lips. Their first kiss was feral, wild with built up passion, devouring each other in release of years of yearning. As air became necessary, he pulled away just enough to breathe yet maintain contact with her lips, noses pressed close. 

Her arms clinging to his neck, she bit and tugged lightly at his lower lip as her hips pressed up and rotated against his. Sherlock's eyes half-closed and he moaned softly at her movement. He made his way to the softness of her neck, nuzzling, mouth open as he took in the taste and scent of her. One hand moved around her head as the other made its way slowly down her body. His long fingers crawled beneath her thin cami to her breast, nimbly teasing her nipple until his mouth came down onto the shirt's gauzy material and continued what his fingers had started. 

Joan closed her eyes and gasped. She pushed his head in closer as he continued. The material, wet from his efforts, was suddenly pulled away from her body and the full force of his mouth and tongue met her breast. She squirmed and then relaxed into the pleasure as he went from one to the other. Her hands smoothed up and down his back in encouragement. 

Sherlock moved down to the softness of her torso, lost in the sensation of her silken skin against his tongue, receiving as much pleasure as he hoped he was giving her. Her fingers dug into his shoulders as her legs moved, knees bent to hold him even closer. His mouth met the boundary of her shorts. 

To his, and now to her benefit, Sherlock had never really respected boundaries. He lay his chin on the waistband, rubbing it across the ribbed elastic and then looked up at her, not really asking for permission, more of a signaling of what was to come. She felt his hands trace down her legs and then slowly up as his head moved to lavish kisses on her inner thighs. His hands took over, fingers searching beneath the silken green material of her shorts. Sherlock adjusted himself on her to give himself more access, an access she freely granted with the movement of her legs. 

Her core sensuously slick, his fingers slid between wet folds, finding her lips full with desire, he further stroked until she wriggled with need for release. Short work was made of her garments and as she lay bare before him, he moaned her name before sinking into her, his tongue plunging and extracting guttural utterances from her. 

"Please ... now ... please..."

In truth he knew, he himself wasn't sure how much longer he could hold back. "Condom ..." he mumbled as he pulled himself away and reached into the drawer of a side table.

She watched the beauty of his muscled body move in the growing light of dawn. His torso twisted as he reached and she lifted herself up and extended a hand to the waistband of his underwear, pulling down to reveal him fully engorged. She wrapped her hand around him and stroked and fondled as he tried to open the condom's wrapping. Sherlock stopped all together when her tongue joined her hands, sitting back on his knees, his breath jagged, her name playing on his lips as his fingers ran through her hair. 

Joan stopped and looked up at him. She took the condom package from his hand. Opening it, she placed it on him, gently pushing him onto his back before straddling him. She took him in slowly at first, the delicious pleasure of it overcoming both of them. Slowly she moved up and away and his hips jutted upwards to fill her once more. She rocked and rotated on him, finding a satisfying rhythm that soon grew furious, producing grunts as corporal satisfaction grew and brought both of them with a loud cry to an orgasmic release. Waves of pleasure undulated through them, ebbed and grew once more until limp and spent, she collapsed on top of him. His arms encircled her and drew her to him as they tried to catch their breath. 

Somewhere in the brownstone a phone was ringing. They ignored it. The NYPD would have to get along without them. Joan and Sherlock had better things to do today. 

He placed several kisses on her head, whispering in her ear, "I'll take you over peaches any day." She laughed against his bare chest.


	4. Chapter 4

The scent of coffee brewing filtered through to her almost awake senses. She rubbed her eyes then slowly opened them; sunlight peeked through the shades of the now closed doors of his bedroom. Joan placed her hand on the pillow beside her and then placed her head where his had been. Closing her eyes, she inhaled the memories of their encounters and indulged in a luxurious stretch. As she lay reliving the night's sensations, insecure thoughts began to ping into her happy ones. She swept them away as she rose and searched for her clothes. 

She walked out into the brightness of the kitchen to find him working at the stove dressed in his usual uniform of buttoned up shirt and trousers. The normalcy of the morning routine threw her. Were they going pretend nothing happened?

"Ah Watson! You're up. I was just preparing breakfast, or more accurately lunch." A half smile dimpled his face but she never saw it. 

The sight of him in work attire and the cheery intoning of her name, allowed the pinging of insecure thoughts to grow into a hail storm. Squinting in the sunlight, she shuffled towards the coffee maker, and reached for a cup. At least he hadn't set out a to-go cup, that was a good sign. 

"You're dressed." Joan spoke without looking at him. She concentrated on pouring herself coffee. 

"Yes. I took a shower and changed while you slept. Thought you might like to sleep in..." His voice faded as he watched her. Something was amiss, her body language was off and she was making no attempt at eye contact.

She took a sip of her coffee and put down the cup. "I'm going to go take a shower and get dressed." 

He watched her start to walk away, head down to avoid his gaze. Sherlock didn't stop to think. With a rough push, he moved the pan away from the burner and turned off the stove. 

"Watson, wait." It took him two long paces to catch up with her, stopping her with the simple action of reaching out for her shoulder. He was not about to go back to stilted conversations and denial. 

Face to face, he searched her eyes and found her, his better half looking a little less self assured than usual. The way he looked at her helped Joan regain her footing. Incrementally they drew closer. Her hand moved to his chest.

"You are alright with ..." Sherlock's hand tenderly touched her face, brushing her cheek with his thumb. Moving closer, his nose brushed hers, his lips caressed her lips until he felt her respond and then in a surge of relief his open mouth met hers.

In the middle of the kitchen, locked in a tight embrace, they stood, centering themselves, accepting the new parameters of their relationship.

Cheek against his chest, listening to the rhythm of his heart, she felt reassured that the right decision had been made. But knowing they were headed into unchartered waters, Joan spoke, "You know we are going to have to talk about this, don't you?

Sherlock nuzzled at her neck and whispered, "You smell of peaches."

"Don't change the subject."

"For some odd reason, I'm finding the smell of peaches to be very arousing."

"Sherlock, be serious."

"I am."


End file.
